


A Night on the Town

by ProfessorMinnie (ProfessorTofty)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1920s, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, HPFF Forums, London, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mutual Masturbation, Period Typical Attitudes, Website: HPFanficTalk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorTofty/pseuds/ProfessorMinnie
Summary: Horace Slughorn meets the man of his dreams for dinner on his thirtieth birthday.For MalfoysAngel's "Dirty Thirty" Challenge on HPFT.
Relationships: Horace Slughorn/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RonsGirlFriday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonsGirlFriday/gifts).



At around a half past seven, a house elf popped into Horace Slughorn’s study. His hand stilled over the box of candied pineapple next to his chair. 

“Sir, a Mr Wallenby is here to see you,” Fox, one of the elves, said. 

“Oh, how grand!” said Horace. He stood and smoothed his velvet waistcoat, checking his laces once more before beaming at his house elf. “Please tell him I'll be right along.”

“Very good, sir. Will you be returning?”

“Oh much later," Horace said, smiling indulgently. "Do give Gabbard my apologies. It was rather so sudden. Would you two mind Marcus while I'm away?”

"Certainly, sir."

Horace smiled and thanked the elf once more. His young son Marcus would be in good hands for the evening. After all, Gabbard and Fox were for all intents and purposes the one who raised Horace in the first place. 

His mood was unconquerable. Today, after all, was his thirtieth birthday, and  _ Luther Wallenby _ was his guest for the evening. 

Horace glanced at himself in the mirror. Yes, this outfit was  _ most  _ attractive. A seafoam green waistcoat, a wide-lapeled coat in a light grey with silver buttons, and a grey cape Horace fastened over his shoulders. Perfect for a night on the town. He took his walking stick, gloves, and hat from their places and walked his way down the stairs. 

When he came down, his heart nearly gave out.

Luther Wallenby was what Horace's friends would call a ‘real man’, one most people wouldn't suspect of being queer like themselves. His dress certainly reflected that distinction of ‘realness’ as always, even if Horace knew Wallenby to be as bent as a willow branch. 

Wallenby had deliciously masculine shoulders made all the wider by the cut of his grey suit, his strong jaw clean-shaven and his auburn hair slicked back. Horace hesitated on the last step. Luther looked up and gave Horace a once over, then an approving smirk.

"Oh Luther, I am infinitely pleased you agreed to come along," Horace said. He shook Wallenby's hand and kissed both his cheeks.

"Wouldn't miss it." Luther said. Horace smiled and dipped his head, hiding his blush. "I've got your-"

Horace pressed a gloved finger against Luther’s lips. "Now now, presents  _ after  _ drinks," he said. "Edith is awaiting us at Avalon."

"Edith?" Luther repeated.

"Oh yes," Horace said with a slight chuckle. "We all have such names and refer to each other as sisters. It’s the protocol, you know."

Luther made a noncommittal noise. "What's yours?"

"Well, I’m called Portia."

“Now he goes, with no less presence but with much more love, than young Alcides, when he did redeem the virgin tribute paid by howling Troy,” Luther recited.

Horace gasped. “I'm impressed, Luther.” He’d suggested Luther read Shakespeare before tonight’s events. How had he known to choose Horace's favorite?

Luther shrugged. He swooped around and placed a kiss on Horace's knuckles. "A pleasure, madame."

Horace really did blush at that. "Oh Luther, please."

The two of them walked away from the Slughorn family lodge, arm in arm until they reached the apparition point. Horace twisted on his heel, and they were off. Horace smiled brilliantly as they stepped out of the alleyway they had Apparated into. 

Shaftesbury Avenue was perhaps one of Horace’s favorite places in the entire world. It was a dazzling array of color and sound that couldn't be found elsewhere. The Muggles had created large, masterful displays of electric lights that jutted outward from the Georgian and Victorian facades, illuminating what the gas lamps could not in a riot of blues, oranges, and yellows. 

It was a garden, one which both the well-to-do thespian and the lowliest (but certainly well-tended) prostitute mingled freely. Dining clubs, theaters, bars, certainly the odd antiquities depot- it held more delights than its grand monuments belied. 

“Welcome to my world,” Horace said. He looked up to see that Luther was rather nervous, his bravado fleeing him. “Is it too much?”

“What if someone sees us?” Luther asked. “I don't want that for either of us.”

“Here?” Horace said. He chuckled quietly. “This is our town, from dusk until dawn. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He looked reassuringly up at Luther and kissed his cheek again. He could get used to it.

“Are you sure?” Luther asked.

“I won't let anything happen to you,” Horace promised, hugging himself into Luther. He gave a slight smile and tipped Horace's hat to one side. 

“C'mon then, take me to Avalon!” he exclaimed. Horace replaced his arm in Luther's and did just that, his cane tapping against the street and his cape fluttering softly in the spring air. 

The two men ended their walk inside of the Queen’s Theater. Whereas Shaftesbury was a bohemian sort of botanical, the Queen’s theater was as elegant an environment as some Pureblood mansions could claim. The carpets were done up in a tasteful green, with gilded mirrors and white walls. A door set into one of these panels separated as they approached, opening as a door into a lovely wood-panelled room the two of them quickly ducked into. 

“That wasn't so bad, was it? We're already here.”

“Oh. Portia!” Edith cried. Horace smiled as the thin man in a tweed ensemble kissed both his cheeks. “Happy birthday, darling.” She leaned back to regard Luther. “And who is this?”

“Ah, this is Luther Wallenby.”

“I see. George Hornby,” Edith introduced herself, shaking Luther's hand. Edith leaned in near Horace “Is he  _ so? _ ”

“Just so, yes,” Horace affirmed. 

It was code of course amongst them, to note out who was, well, like them; the sort of transigent third state that made them all rather different than most men and caused some to take up feminine pronouns if only in the companies of other sisters. Luther had said in all effect that he was ‘so’ to Horace. He"d explain what that meant to Luther later on. 

“He doesn't look it-” Edith said. She turned back. “Oh, where are my manners? You are of course most welcome here, Wallenby. I"ve known Portia for- how long dear?”

“Longer than I care to admit," Horace said with a smile. If he kept this up, they"d be late for the theater.

Edith tittered. "Oh, you rogue. Come, please, sit down." Edith led them through the restaurant. An elf took their coats and accessories. "I'll tell Hamish- that’s Clarissa- you’re here. I know she’d love to see you. Perhaps a sherry is in order?"

Horace deliberated. He knew he wanted some sort of red meat. If Luther was unsure, at least he might enjoy whatever Horace got. What to pair with it...

“Well, you only turn thirty once,” Horace said. “A bottle of port, thirty-year."

Edith nodded. “A fine choice. Something to eat as well?"

“Hippocamp suits me fine,” Luther said. Horace wanted to smile. That’s what they had on their first excursion. Well, dinner in Horace’s office didn’t quite count as an excursion. Luther intertwined his fingers with Horace's under the table. Horace glanced down, not expecting this in the slightest. 

“Hippocamp?” Edith repeated with a hint of surprise. “Very good. Portia, dear?”

"The same," Horace squeaked. "With a side of asparagus."

“I'll return post-haste,” Edith said with a coy smile and left them.

“H-have you been enjoying yourself, Luther?” Horace asked with a small smile. 

Luther shrugged. “It’s all a bit foreign to me, I guess. I'm better with it now that we are here.”

Horace smiled. “Oh, capital. Are we going to stay for dessert?”

Instead of answering, Luther let go of Horace’s hand and trailed his fingers across Horace’s thigh, kissing the side of his neck. Apparently his confidence was back in full swing. 

“ _ Merlin help me _ ,” Horace thought. “Your message is well received,” he stuttered out.

“Ah, starting a bit early, are we?” Edith called with a smirk. 

Horace blushed furiously when Luther gripped his thigh. “ _ Edith. _ ”

Edith’s smirk widened into an indulgent smile as she placed the bottle of port and three stout glasses onto the table. “Pardon me; how vulgar. Cigarette, Portia? Luther?”

Horace gulped and nodded. Edith effortless pulled a case from her jacket and gave them both cigarettes. Luther snapped his fingers at the end, lighting the blue wrap with a spark. Horace lit his and Edith’s with his wand. The almost electric odor of billywig essence wafted through the booth. Billywig naturally was more potent than nicotine, so Horace didn’t often indulge for fear of twitching for the next fortnight. 

“Thank you darling,” said Edith. She took a long drag and blew out a smoky silhouette of a mermaid. Horace retorted with replicating the giant squid within the Black Lake. Luther looked amused and blew his smoke through the gap between his front teeth, causing a light haze to animate both squid and mermaid for a moment. 

“Oh, good show!” Edith clapped. The image disappeared. She tapped her cigarette against an ashtray. “Now tell me, how did you two meet?”

“I'm the gamekeeper at Hogwarts,” Luther said. “We sit near each other at the staff table.”

“Oh how charming!” Edith said, taking another drag. “My daughter Olive will be attending in a few years. Speaking of, how’s our young lad Marcus?”

“He’s fine. The elves are well-suited for taking care of him.”

Edith nodded gravely. “Oh good. Good. I was sorry to hear of the horrible news. I'm sure it was devastating.”

Horace’s smile was rather fixed. “Well, yes, of course. I suppose there was little love lost towards the end.” 

It was still a sore subject and Edith knew that. Edith always poked the bear. However, he supposed it was as successful a match that his father could have hoped for in the end: Georgina had taken his money, and he remained with his son whom he still loved dearly. Clearly, he had the better end of the deal. Money could always be remade.

“I should hope so,” Edith drawled with a dark chuckle. “I hope the day is very far distant where either of us could be accused of making love to a woman.”

“Port, Horace?” asked Luther. Horace’s doldrum of a mood passed. He squeezed Luther’s hand in agreement. 

“Where are you employed?” Luther asked Edith while he tapped his cigarette.

“I serve in Lord Asquith’s household, don’t you know. I tutor his children in magical theory.”

“And  _ you're  _ married?”

“Oh yes, I suppose I am still,” Edith said stonily, her ever-present jackal’s grin fading for a moment. Horace nearly jumped out of his seat in triumph at the sight. Edith may be his friend, but she knew better than to bring up Horace’s troubles, especially in front of  _ his guest _ . 

Dinner was largely the same, with the savory savor of each magnificent morsel of the hippocamp’s hind, not to mention Luther’s languid ministrations on Horace’s thigh, nepenthe enough for him to get through Edith’s entirely too pointed conversation topics. How had they  _ known _ , how was it that they hadn’t been caught, how Luther was in bed. At that, Horace had drawn the line.

Horace’s smile soured into a cool smirk. “I’m sure after having nearly every two-bob in Hyde Park, you ought to tell us more about your escapades, rather than focusing so heavily on ours.”

Edith looked shocked. Luther ducked his face away from the two of them to chuckle in privacy.

“I’m appalled,” Edith said with a gasp. “I am just curious.”

“Your topics drain me,” Horace sighed. “I apologize- Not tonight. Go find a spot of trade to gussy up for.”

Edith’s jackal smile returned. “Go home to your wife. Oh, forgive me. I forgot about your  _ situation _ .”

Horace’s blood ran cold. He normally wasn’t so irritable, but Edith had crossed plenty of even his lines. Thankfully, Luther beat him to it.

“Go,” Luther said, his deep voice turning absolutely  _ gravel-like _ . A thrill ran up Horace’s spine. 

Edith, now definitely George Hornby, ashed his cigarette and took the bottle of port with him. Horace sighed and leaned his head against the side of the booth. 

“I apologize,” Horace said quietly. Luther put a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘I feel I must’ve ruined this all for you terribly.”

“This wasn’t your fault. That scoundrel Edith- Hornby, whatever you call him, the fault is his. And besides, this night is yours.”

Horace smiled weakly. “And yours. Your introduction to ‘my’ world.”

Luther shrugged. “I’m not so sure it’s any different from mine. The hippocamp was good. Not as good as your elf’s, mind.”

“Gabbard’s a dame,” Horace agreed. “You’re right of course. There’s no use in moping. Let’s see, I know a rather jazzy place back on the main thoroughfare. Perhaps a show and then…”

“Then?” asked Luther. He raised one of his angular brows. 

“Well, uh…” Horace gulped. “ _ Dessert _ . That is, if you want to. I know it’s your first, but-”

“I’m nervous as hell, but yes. Merlin, yes.” Luther said. He bowed his head and looked back into Horace’s eyes. “You know, before all of this, I didn’t really know what  _ this  _ was. I thought that I was fashioned incorrectly.”

Horace chuckled despite himself. “How on earth could you be made incorrectly in any form?”

“That’s not the point,” Luther said with a shake of his head. Horace noted the vulnerability clear as day on his guest’s handsome visage. “I nearly didn’t come today. I thought, maybe if I didn’t… But it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Does it?” asked Horace carefully.

Luther had a small smile now. “No, I guess not. That is to say, I’m relieved I did. I’m glad I did. I’m glad it’s  _ you _ , and not batty old Edith.”

“Heavens forbid I let her get her claws into you,” Horace muttered. 

He’d sooner proclaim his love for pickled eels than let Edith (or George) Hornby anywhere near Luther ever again. This period in Luther’s life, of discovering his place between the masculine and feminine, was as near sacrosanct to the both of them as one could get in this mortal life. 

It had taken Horace years to realize that his affection for his wife was only that- friendly affection as one would have for a friend of the opposite sex. Luther Wallenby on the other hand, had up to that point no solid obligation which was a small blessing for him. 

“It’s all so complex, isn’t it?” murmured Luther. 

“What is?”

“Well, I mean we’re supposed to be attracted to women, right?”

Horace was puzzled. “I suppose in a sense of natural order, yes, but we’ve never truly been a part of that, have we?”

“But we’re not women.”

Horace eyed the protuberance evident in his companion’s trouser line. “Definitely not.”

“So we’re abnormal,” said Luther with a note of finality.

Horace turned and kissed Luther’s absolutely divine lips which seemed to take the other man’s breath away. With the way his companion looked and acted and felt and at long, sweet last hesitantly  _ reciprocated _ , Horace felt that his own breath had been taken away consistently and it was only proper to return the favor.

“If we are abnormal, Luther Wallenby,” Horace said softly in the other man’s ear, “I don’t wish to be normal ever again.”

Luther smiled at that. Horace loved the little gap in his two front teeth, the slightest imperfection in an otherwise Adonic figure that nevertheless was entirely and exquisitely perfect. It was a gap that disappeared as Luther’s smile soured into a small frown. 

“Before we go, there’s just one thing I feel I must say.”

Horace granted a look of concern. “What is it?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve given it a bit of thought. I’m not coming back to Hogwarts this year.”

Perhaps he was wrong. His mood was conquerable. 

In fact, it had been crushed. 


	2. Love Me Like There's No Tomorrow

Luther hadn’t wanted to spring this surprise on Horace at all, but reasoned it would be better to tell him before the night was over. Before they did something so wonderful. It was better to go into it with a clear consciousness rather than spoil it afterwards. Horace was the best thing to happen to Luther. He hated himself for causing Horace’s beautiful eyes to dim, his ever-present smile that Luther was graced with throughout the evening turn to a frown. Of all days, it had to be Horace’s birthday. 

“Why? Whatever do you mean you’re not coming back to Hogwarts?”

“I… It’s nothing to do with you. You are wonderful. Truly.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“I put in an application. I’m going to join the Aurors. I want- I need to join. Out there, people are disappearing. Grindelwald is becoming dangerous. My parents… well, they’re at risk, aren’t they?”

“There are other ways to help.”

“I can’t stay out of it. I’m sorry that I told it to you this way. I didn’t know how. I feel quite horrible.”

“You must do what you think is right, of course. When- when do you ship out?”

“Two days from now. “

“Well, if tonight’s all we have, my dear, I must insist we dance. “

Luther cupped Horace’s cheek, who leaned into his touch and kissed his wrist. Luther wiped away Horace’s tears with his thumb, kissing his forehead. “Thank you.”

“I think I knew. I knew it wouldn’t last. Nothing would be beautiful if everything was eternal. I should hope for this again. I aspire for a moment ten minutes ago.”

“Maybe in a different time all of this will be as normal as a train station. Until then, the night is young, Mr Slughorn. We still have music to make. For this night, I am yours.”

“And I’m yours.”

So they danced. Horace had led him into a beautiful dancehall filled to the gills with couples of all shapes, sizes, and sexes. The night was still young, and the alcohol was free-flowing. They didn’t partake as much as some of the other patrons, but Luther nevertheless felt a pleasant buzz running through him. Despite the heat of the dance floor and the port lingering in his system, he dared not to loosen his tie as Horace hadn’t. 

They came together for a slow song. Horace led. He was smiling, though tears remained in his eyes. Holding him close, Luther could feel the heat of Horace’s body against him, the nervous sweat slicking the other man’s otherwise confident grip on his arm. Luther smiled down at him and kissed his forehead again, smelling the simple pomade that Horace had slicked into his hair and loving it. He so wished he could keep this moment or go back to take back what he said to preserve this darling man’s happiness for all time, but Horace was correct: nothing could keep this forever. Nothing could change the fact that he’d be gone in two days time. 

If tonight was all he had with Horace, he would make the best of it. 

As the song drew to a close, Horace swept in to hug Luther. Luther put his hand on the other man’s back, rocking him back and forth. Horace leaned back, and Luther placed his thumb on his chin, leaning him up for a soft kiss. Even then, after the wondrous night they had had, nothing could compare to the feel of Horace’s lips against his. Luther felt boneless as Horace deepened the kiss and flung his arms around his neck. For a moment, nothing else mattered.

When they broke apart, Horace smiled and Luther couldn’t help but reciprocate.

“Shall we?” he all but whispered.

Horace smirked. “I’m ready.”

Horace quickly threw back on his cloak and dipped with Luther into an alleyway near the dance hall. Luther pressed him into the wall and kissed him fiercely. Horace was trembling, his breath hitching. Luther finally loosened his tie. Horace unbuttoned the first few, and Luther used the opportunity to slip his hand under and feel his chest. If he hadn’t needed to ship out in two days, Luther could see himself doing this every day - his family’s opinion be damned. 

“We should stop,” Horace gasped. “I simply  _ won’t  _ have you in an alleyway.”

“I agree,” Luther said. Horace grinned and grabbed Luther’s wrist, spinning on his foot. 

They all but ran up the path back to the Slughorn lodge. Horace, with his top hat and cane under one arm and Luther’s hand in the other, sped down the path. Horace flung open the door and all but threw his effects toward the house elf that popped into the room. Luther muttered a hasty apology to the elf and placed his coat neatly on the ground before racing after Horace. 

They slowed as they reached the stairs when Horace quickly exposed Luther’s chest and let his hands roam, passing over his skin in fervent exploration. They kissed. Luther reached for Horace’s belt-

“Not here. Come with me,” said Horace. He led Luther through the richly decorated halls into a large bedroom. Horace let go of his hand only to close and lock the door behind Luther. 

As Horace took off his clothes, Luther’s breath caught. Before him now was the first man to get naked for him - the first ever to be naked  _ with  _ him. Horace tipped Luther onto the bed and with some sort of reverence took off Luther’s trousers, shoes, and socks until the both of them could see each other fully in the light. Horace luxuriated in Luther’s caresses, the warmth of his gaze and the sweetness of his taste. He was exquisite.

Horace sprawled across the bed, Luther coming to rest on top of him. Luther put his hands on Horace’s wrists and slowly lowered himself over him, feeling the heat of his skin, hearing his stuttering breath. Horace had a moment to catch his breath, smiling faintly at the man pinning down his wrists and looking into his eyes with adoration. 

“Is this fine?” Luther murmured. 

Horace smiled even wider. “Tell me I’m beautiful,” he breathed. His eyes shone in a pleading light - he needed to hear those words aloud. 

Luther planted a kiss against Horace’s neck. “You are beautiful.”

Horace’s head went to the side. “Again.”

Luther put his mouth next to Horace’s ear and whispered:

“You’re beautiful.”

Horace sucked in a breath. Luther let go of his wrists with a kiss. Horace reached for some gel in the endtable by his bed. Luther shuddered as his cock was coated in the clear, cool liquid. This was it. Horace lowered his hand and began to slowly massage his partner’s length. With one muscular arm propping him up, Luther reciprocated. Horace bit his lip, stifling a throaty moan.

It was an entirely new, entirely more pleasurable experience to feel someone else’s touch in this way. Neither were virgins (having both experienced the fairer sex for propriety if not for affection), but neither had felt such care, such intimacy. 

They switched positions, both kneeling now, their chests touching. Horace looked up and kissed Luther again. 

And again.

And again. 

They found a steady rhythm. The roll of consistent pleasure washed over them both, their immediate release an exquisite roiling agony. 

And then…

_ Bliss _ . 

The two of them fell to the bed, momentarily exhausted and basking in the other’s affection. Luther and Horace caught each other's gaze. Horace’s hair was decidedly rumpled, and Luther knew his was no better. They laughed like two randy schoolboys, then shared a tender kiss. 

“Exquisite,” murmured Horace. Luther hummed in agreement. 

“Ready for the next round?”

“Am I ever!”

Horace grinned. 

Thank Merlin the both of them lasted the rest of the night - and what a glorious night it was. 


	3. These Are the Days of Our Lives

Nearly seventy-one years after that glorious night, Horace Slughorn walked down Shaftesbury Avenue once more, this time woefully alone and in a world he could hardly recognize. Many of the facades from his youth had been wiped away from post-War construction, its charm and character largely changed from the bohemian madhouse it once was to the orderly rows of theaters and small clubs. It was, in a word, bland. 

Even the mighty Queen’s Theater, the home of Avalon, had been changed. Horace paused to regard the new exterior, made of glass and metal instead of stone and marble. The world he knew was gone indeed. He went inside the lobby and paused at the old entrance. The bomb that had hit the theater had blasted through Avalon, and it had never been rebuilt. Edith- George Hornby (he’d never used his camp name again) had long since retired and moved to Monaco. 

The nightclub he’d taken Luther Wallenby to was also gone. He hadn’t been back since that night, but now it was a convenience store of some variety. A shame really. It was such a place to be.

He hadn’t seen Luther in years. The last he’d heard of him, he had settled down and had a few children. For years he had waited for a knock on his door, a wave at parents’ night - but it never came. Instead Horace was well-pleased to teach Luther’s children, then his grandchildren in turn, all blessed with shockingly auburn hair, some even with the perfect imperfection of Luther’s front gap. 

He could have written - but what would be the point? Horace was a ghost of another time, another heap of dust swept away in favor of the new. Luther had said it wouldn’t last, and he had kept his word to the utmost. It hurt, some days more than others, but Horace lived to endure it. He tried to capture it again with someone else, anyone else, but no matter the man, none measured to the exquisiteness of the first, to Luther Wallenby. 

It was pitiful, really. He’d never remarried but remained in the closet for all this time. He had many students in his house ask for his advice over the years about something vaguely similar to his own plight, how they should deal with their ‘affliction’, their ‘abnormality’, their ‘sinful feelings’ - particularly those from Wizarding families. 

While he had helped (to their gratitude) he had never done it from the heart or channeled the Horace who was swept off his feet by a man with a dazzling smile so very long ago. He knew now that he or his fellow queens weren’t in a transigent third-state between man and woman: they were homosexuals. 

He was a man as any man, but a man who delighted in the carnal company of other men exclusively - or at least would have.

Why should he yearn for the world that birthed Tom Riddle or Grindelwald, one whose intolerance had caused Muggleborns of great ability to suffer the indignity of persecution and ridicule? Why, of all these moments, had he chosen to give in to selfish feelings and not served further as a guide to a new, better generation - one who could learn from his particular experience to accept who they are? Yet he had. Headmistress McGonagall had been saddened to receive his resignation notice, but was understanding. On his part, he’d justified his retirement, his exile, as being further punishment for what he’d done - what information he’d given to young Riddle. Horace knew he was weak for flattery. 

No. Perhaps it is best that this world is gone for good. 

With another sweeping look at the Trocadero, no longer a theater but a fashion house, Horace turned on his heel and Apparated into the Three Broomsticks. At least there he wouldn’t be haunted. 

He stayed at the Broomsticks, drinking his third-favorite tincture as oak-matured mead and port had both been sufficiently ruined for him. Yes, gin would do fine. 

The Broomsticks had been largely untouched by the Second War. The upstairs had had its windows blown out and several rooms had to be heavily restored - apparently the Death Eaters delighted in too many cruel experiments under this roof - but largely it remained as it had, a stalwart of British wizardry, tested by time where Horace’s haunts had failed. 

He slowed his consumption after the third round. He was no spring chicken, after all. In some moments, he felt every one of his one-hundred-and-one years. 

Horace stood and began to walk to his usual corner, leaving his glass and napkin at the bar. He caught someone’s gaze as he passed.

A hope beyond hope stared at him through wrinkles that seemed to fade as Horace continued to - rather impolitely - stare right back. 

This near-stranger, in a Muggle-fashioned suit with an unknotted tie, seemed to be searching for something in Horace’s face.

He found what he was after, and so did Horace. 

An easy smile crinkled those damning eyes. 

This was it: the final collision of his old life and the new. 

Not a crash or a disaster.

A gentle hug that spanned time.

A whispered phrase he’d hoped beyond hope to say:

“Good to see you, Wallenby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this all a setup for a Half-Blood Prince joke? Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading!


End file.
